Accused
by PessimisticChick
Summary: Ever had someone accuse you of being a murderer? Ever been so damn unlucky that your lawyers believe it too? Ever had it be that the only chance you have, the only one of your lawyers that believes you, is not only an intern, but your ex-girlfriend too? If you have, then this is one hell of coincidence. AH. AU. Fax.
1. Prologue

_Summary: Ever had someone accuse you of being a murderer? Ever been so damn unlucky that your lawyers believe it too? Ever had it be that the only chance you have, the only one of your lawyers that believes you, is not only an intern, but your ex-girlfriend too? If you have, then this is one hell of coincidence._

**Prologue**

**Fang POV**

I groaned as I woke up. The shrill alarm sounded louder than usual, and as I sat up straight, the pounding in my head got louder and louder. That's when I knew I was hung-over.

For me, it wasn't really _too_ uncommon of a thing. I had a circle of life I went about. Go to work every day. Go to the bar at night. Flirt with the bartender. Find a random chick and bang her. It wasn't a very fulfilling lifestyle, but it was how I went about things. It was what worked for me.

I was glad to realize that this time I hadn't taken the girl home, so I didn't have to explain to her that just because we slept together, it didn't mean we would be together forever and ever. I pulled on my regular attire - all black. Not goth, not emo, just my style. When I was younger, I used it to blend in, but now people saw it as a signature.

As I entered the kitchen, I salivated at the mere smell of cooking pancakes. It seemed like days since I had last eaten.

"Igs," I spotted my best friend slaving over the stove. "You gonna whip up some hang over brew?" Maybe I wasn't that smart, but I was smart enough to know that Iggy was the only person in the world who could create a hangover remedy that actually tastes _good_.

Iggy stylishly and exaggeratingly flipped his strawberry-blonde hair out of his face and winked at me, "You know I already did, bro." He grinned. "You were so wasted when you got home, even more than usual. You'd think having an alcoholic for a friend would get on my nerves, but I think you're just hilarious, Fang."

I gave him the traditional Fang glare, "I'm not an alcoholic." It was true, too. Sure, I got totally trashed every once in a while, but typically I could keep it under control. "I'm going to go pee." I announced.

"Have fun and don't forget to tell me how it goes, honey!" Iggy called as I exited the kitchen.

I shook my head. It amazed me how I could be friends with someone like him. It was the classic case of weird opposites attract in some ways, I suppose. He was the typical extrovert; crazy, outgoing, loud. I'm your typical introvert; quiet, unemotional, and even more quiet. Iggy seemed to understand that I wasn't going to be the person opening up and sharing personal stories every three seconds, and he accepted that. Personally, I think he's just content that with me around a lot, he can talk to himself and not look crazy. Our friendship was another one of those odd things that just worked for me.

I squinted at myself in the mirror after some splashing water in my face. I looked a mess, it was true. My overgrown jet black hair was sticking up at all ends. My eyes were still dark as obsidian, which was typical, however, they were red-rimmed and I had deep bags under my eyes.

I looked like shit, honestly. This elicited a groan from me, which ended up more of a grunt. How was I going to get to work and look at least a little presentable?

But more pressingly, how had I gotten this way? Sure, I've had rough nights, but this is just unusual. I don't remember anything beyond going to the bar. I probably flirted with the bartender, I probably found a girl. I hope it was some damn good sex to be worth this bad of an appearance.

I cleaned up the best I could with hygiene products, but it really didn't do much.

As I began to walk back to the kitchen, I saw Iggy standing by the door standing next to two tall, intimidating-looking cops.

I walked toward them cautiously; my reputation with the police hasn't been exactly solid throughout the years. A DUI here, a public peeing scandal there, it had been a couple years since I had last gone to the station, but not being secure with what I was even doing last night, I felt the sketchiness just rippling off those policemen.

As I finally reached the men, they frowned at me with matching furrowed brows. The one on the left, sporting a large mustache to go with his bulky muscles finally spoke up.

"Nicholas Walker?"

"Yeah?"

"You're under arrest for the murder of Lissa Chase."

**So… hi. I wrote this story quite a while ago. And I mean quite a while. This is just a prologue, but everyone give me an honest opinion of what you think. If this gets a good response, I'll probably continue. **

**Thanks for taking the time to read.**

**-PessimisticChick**


	2. Chapter 1

**Fang POV**

Utter shock. That's all that was going on inside my head at that point. I had a million shocked, confused questions just drifting throughout my head all in a matter of seconds.

I consider myself a pretty simplistic guy, so when I had so many things I wanted to say at once, I knew something was wrong.

The response I settled on was, "What?"

I know… not the most intelligent, Fang.

The mustache cop sighed and began, "I said, you're under arrest – "

"No, I heard you, but…"

An eyebrow raise from both cops in sync. It was a little creepy to be completely honest.

"That's crazy!" I spurted, at least three times louder than my typical octave. I'm sure my mad eyes really helped the 'This guy's insane' thing too.

Neither cop flinched, not even a muscle twitched. They were stoic, clear cut, and stony-faced. If intimidating was looked up in the dictionary, these guys would have their picture plastered next to the definition. If anyone was expecting a "Haha, just kidding, Fang!" and a smile, it wasn't going to come out of these guys any time soon.

I wanted to ask them if they had a family, a childhood, a mother… anything that made them smile, but then, who was I to judge that, really?

The non-mustache cop, who was clearly not amused by his tone of voice, started, "You were at Irish's Pub on Fourth Street last night, yes or no?"

"Yes."

"You were drinking, yes or no?"

"Yes."

"You were with Lissa Chase and left the pub with her, yes or no?"

"No!" I thought over it carefully. My first thought was clearly deny, deny, deny. I _couldn't_ have murdered anyone. It was impossible. Maybe I wasn't always the friendliest, or the happiest guy you'd meet; okay, maybe I was downright unsocial and unfriendly, but I didn't have it in me to _murder_ anybody.

But lying to the cops? Well, I don't know if it's considered lying, as I have no idea what happened last night. I rephrased my answer, "Well, I'm not sure. I don't remember anything from last night. I went a little too hard on the beer last night, you know?" I let out a hoarse chuckle that ended up sounding more like a dying frog than anything. And considering the sentence I had just said was more words than I typically spoke in three hours, I was proud I managed something.

But neither cop even offered me a sympathy smile. What a shame.

Iggy spoke for the first time since the door had opened. And he sounded incredulous, just like his wide-eyed expression looked. "Fang wouldn't hurt a fly! He has a tough guy exterior sure, but he'd never kill someone!"

Mustache cop frowned, "Fang? That some kinda cult name? You in some kinda gang, son?"

I was taken aback. Less than at the name thing, which I got a lot. Fang was something I only got called by really close friends… so Iggy mostly. But when other people heard me getting called this, I certainly got questions. Though I never really explained it to them. Fang was deemed to me by my high school girlfriend. Apparently "Nicholas" was too common. With my famous biker leather jacket I wore to school every day (I know… the leather was too much, what was I was thinking back then?) and my extreme personality (or lack of appearance to have one), she said I needed a cool biker name. I was thus deemed Fang, a name which since I have only told Iggy when I met him in college.

I was more taken aback by the clear superiority in his voice. He treated me like I was some fourteen year old kid who had kicked over his neighbor's mailbox. I'm twenty damn four. I hate being talked down to by anybody. I curled my fist and clutched it against my side. I could take stoic cop, and an intimidating cop, too, but if there was one thing that struck a nerve in my body and my brain, it was being talked down to. I had my reasons for that.

Deep breaths and steady concentration are the only things that pushed me through the sudden surge of anger. "No." I said through gritted teeth. This was one of those moments I wished being temperamental wasn't such a huge part of my personality. I can usually hide it better, but with the stress of the situation, I felt like I might explode.

"You have to believe this, though, I would never kill anybody."

Mustache cop huffed, "You were seen with this girl only two hours before her estimated time of death. The bartender commented that you were seen quote," he looked down at his police notepad and flipped a page, "'groping the hell out her.'" Any allegiance I felt to my typical flirty bartender, Sarah, I believe her name was, flew out the window.

Iggy butted in, "People make out at bars all the time, it's not unusual." He almost sounded more frantic than I did.

"There were fingerprints found on a gun at the crime scene, an alley near the backlot of the pub. We'll need you to come to the station to check your fingerprints." Non-mustache cop commented nonchalantly.

My teeth finally lost their grit. A weight on my chest finally lifted, and despite the situation I felt an urge to laugh. _Really_ laugh. Despite my confidence before, there was a nagging in me that I might've done it. Now I knew that I couldn't have. I have never touched a gun in my life, there's no way I'd even know to fire one. I had proof on my side now, and they'd know it wasn't me when they figured out it wasn't my fingerprints.

"We're not going anywhere with you and your stupid – " Iggy began, forever playing the defensive best friend.

"Ig, it's fine." I still wanted to smile, though I knew I wasn't actually going to. "So you guys don't have any proof it's me, then?"

"Not yet," Mustache cop said, I swear the stoic policeman let out a little smirk, "We're working on firm suspicion, intuition, and ten years of experience in the force."

But I knew. And I wasn't going to doubt myself anymore.

* * *

The ride to the station was surprisingly serene. The scenery in LA, where I lived, looked like it typically did. Surprisingly, there was no dark, twisted outlook taking over LA, like I figured there might be.

Iggy looked absolutely ridiculous sitting next to me in the back of the cop car. Standing extremely tall and lanky at 6'5", with surprisingly good posture, he had to duck his head to not hit the top of the car.

The officers hadn't been too keen to let Iggy come, but when Iggy insisted he had to be taken too and get tested for his fingerprints, because he could have killed the girl too, they reluctantly let him come. I had to give it him, he was nothing if not brave and loyal. And stupid. Extremely stupid.

Luckily though, despite the cops' first statement, neither of us were actually arrested by law, and we didn't have to wear handcuffs down to the station, which is good. They chafe.

Once the cops got us inside, Mr. Forensics Fingerprints Man didn't have much to say. He was middle-aged, salt and pepper hair with wrinkles to match. The cops handed us both over to Mr. Forensics, however they stayed in the room. I don't know, maybe they had to insure we wouldn't overpower this middle-aged man and flee the scene, but whatever the cause may be, they stayed in the room.

I'm not sure whether it was simply irony, or the fact they wanted to stretch out the drama and suspicion as long as possible, but they tested Iggy's prints first. Unsurprisingly, there was no match.

That's when it hit me. And I was completely confused. I had been arrested before and had my fingerprints taken… why didn't they have them on record?

I voiced my concern, "I've had my fingerprints taken before. Why aren't they on file?" I frowned.

Both cops tightened their mouths, and Mr. Forensics' brow furrowed. No one responded though. Clearly something happened that they weren't voicing to us.

Iggy shot me a, "What's going on?" look, and I could only shrug in response.

I had my fingerprints taken, the whole shebang, and it felt terribly familiar. I flashed back to my previous experiences at the station. It had certainly been at least a year since my last visit. I had been trying to clean up my act, at least a little recently.

Most of my experiences at the station hadn't happened at this one, only one or two happened here. Truthfully, most of my jailtime had turned into bailtime, and it happened in the town where I grew up. It was a small suburb of LA with a population of maybe 15,000. If you saw a face around town, even if you didn't know the name, you'd typically recognize them.

I was an angry kid. I can't lie. Some things happened in my childhood that I wasn't too fond of. There wasn't an abundance of people I cared about, or cared to talk to. I never delved into drugs, but I started alcohol early, which disappointed one of the only people I cared for, my mother.

Even less than people I cared about as a kid, were people I thought understood me. There was pretty much only my high school girlfriend. And once she was gone… well, that's why I was so appreciative of Iggy now. He is a good friend.

I had a rough childhood, yeah. I went to the station many times in high school, yeah. But that was the past. I'm trying to tone it down now, kind of.

Before it could consume my entire brain, I shook away thoughts of the past. That was never going to be a good time.

Sooner than I realized, Mr. Forensics stepped away from his computer.

I felt my stomach sink and could feel bile rising in my throat as he said his next three words.

"It's a match."

**Was that a bad cliffhanger? I don't know. I couldn't think of another way to wrap it up. I really appreciated the feedback from last chapter guys. You guys are all really sweet! :)**

**Any critiques, or constructive criticism on how to improve the story is widely welcome, so drop me a review, kay?**

**Sorry if this isn't all a hundred percent accurate on proceeds, 'cause I know it's not, but I'm this from a pure fictional perspective, straight from my strange mind. :P**

**Also, if you have an questions on the story, or are confused by anything I wrote, just leave a review or P.M. me or something and I will definitely respond back.**

**-Pessimistic Chick.**


End file.
